Riddle had finished his dinner at the Great Hall much faster than usual, unwilling to linger another moment under the floating candles and boisterous chatter. The Halloween feast was in full swing, but the noise grated on his nerves. He had no patience for mindless festivities or for the hollow laughter of those who mistook joy for meaning. Without a word, he rose from his seat and slipped away, ignoring the eyes that followed him with curiosity and admiration. Let them whisper. Let them wonder what the brilliant Tom Riddle was always plotting.
He walked briskly through the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts, where the shadows clung to the walls like secrets waiting to be overheard. The torches flickered, casting long streaks of gold on the cold stone floors. His footsteps echoed faintly as he turned toward the west tower, lost in thought about the next stage of his research. The silence suited him better than the noise of the Great Hall; here, the world seemed still enough to listen.
Then, without warning, he collided hard into what he thought was a wall. But the wall, strangely soft and warm, turned out to be someone's back. The impact jolted him backward.
The girl turned slowly, her dark hair catching the moonlight as her face came into view. Her amber eyes glowed faintly, almost unnaturally, like molten gold. There was something unsettling about that gaze, sharp enough to pierce through any pretense, any mask.
"Going somewhere, Tommy?" she asked, her voice smooth and cold, carrying a hint of mockery that made his jaw tighten.
Riddle froze for a fraction of a second. He hated the name Tommy, he hated how she was reducing him back to a mere orphaned boy. Without a word, he brushed past her, keeping his composure, though his heart pounded with irritation. Still, as he reached the staircase, he glanced back over his shoulder. She stood exactly where he had left her, unmoving, her eyes still locked on him like a vengeful ghost refusing to fade.
He climbed to the roof of the west tower, his favorite place when he needed solitude. It was a spot so high and secluded that not even ghosts bothered to drift this far. The wind was sharp, cold against his face, but he found comfort in the isolation. Sitting on the edge of the stone ledge, he pulled out a worn, leather-covered diary, the one he treated more like a confidant than a book and began jotting down his latest thoughts and findings.
The Black Lake might hold the key, he wrote. There were whispers of ancient magic sleeping beneath its depths, secrets older than the founders themselves. His mind drifted briefly toward his greater obsession, the longing question that had consumed his being, defying death.
Herpo the Foul, the dark wizard of legend, had performed a ritual that defied mortality itself. Tom had read about him in the Restricted Section, memorizing every grim detail of the text that many others would have turned away from in horror. He noted the reference again, intending to pursue it further. Perhaps greatness always came with a price. Perhaps he was already paying it.
He smirked faintly. The pieces were falling into place, just as he had foreseen. The Chamber of Secrets, the relics of the founders, the forbidden rituals, it was all connecting now. One day, history would remember him not as Tom Riddle, the clever Slytherin boy, but as something far greater.
Then a whisper grazed his ear like a blade of ice.
"What are you smirking about?"
He jerked backward instantly, his diary slipping from his grasp as he scrambled to his feet. His wand was in his hand before he even thought about it, aimed toward the sound.
Morsia stood there, her wicked grin widening as she teetered dangerously near the edge of the tower. Her black hair fluttered wildly in the wind. "Careful," she said, stepping forward and then, without warning, he stumbled and fell.
Riddle's eyes widened. He lunged backward, only to see her standing atop the roof across from him, waving his diary mockingly in her hand.
"Arresto Momentum," he muttered sharply, cushioning his own fall as he leapt down after her. He hit the ground hard, rolling on his back before sitting up, his breath ragged. He glanced upward, she was gone.
His hand raked through his hair in frustration. The rage simmered beneath his calm exterior, threatening to spill over. He clenched his wand tightly. First his wand had been stolen, and now his diary, his most private thoughts, his ambitions, his blueprints for greatness were in her hands. The humiliation burned worse than any curse.
He wanted to find her and make her regret ever crossing him. He could already imagine the flick of his wand, the way her mocking eyes would go wide before the light left them forever. The image was almost comforting.
But killing her would have to wait. There were bigger things to focus on, the Chamber of Secrets, the artifacts, the experiments that would one day make him immortal. He forced himself to breathe evenly, to let the fury cool just enough to think.
By the time he began walking back toward the Great Hall, he had composed himself again. The closer he got, the louder the noise grew, the laughter, the music, the clinking of goblets. The sound scraped against his nerves, but he masked his irritation behind his usual calm, confident expression.
Then something brushed against his face, a soft flutter, like silk. A strand of hair. He caught the faint scent of it, sweet and intoxicating, but the moment the realization hit him, his throat constricted.
"Hello again, Tommy," Morsia whispered, stepping out from the crowd like a shadow made flesh. In her hand gleamed the familiar black diary, and her amber eyes glinted with dangerous amusement. "Or should I call you... Lord Voldemort?"
The name hung in the air, heavy and sharp. His stomach twisted, though he kept his face still. She had read it. She knew everything. The name he had chosen for himself, the one meant to command fear and reverence, was now tainted by her mockery.
"What is it, My Lord?" she added, her voice dripping with mock reverence, every word designed to provoke him.
Under any other circumstance, hearing someone address him as Lord Voldemort would have thrilled him. But from her lips, it felt like poison, like an insult, not a title.
His patience shattered. With a sharp flick of his wand, he hissed, "Accio."
The diary flew from her hand and into his, its leather cover cool against his fingers. She didn't resist. No smirk, no struggle, no duel, just that same infuriating half-smile, as if she had orchestrated the entire scene. The fact that she hadn't fought back only made his blood boil more.
He glared at her one last time before turning sharply and striding into the Great Hall. The moment he entered, his face transformed again—charming, poised, untouchable.
Cheers erupted from the Slytherin table. At first, he thought they were for him. They usually were. But the laughter and applause grew louder as Morsia followed close behind, her steps unhurried, her expression bored but victorious.
He felt something cold coil in his chest. For the first time, the attention he had always commanded belonged to someone else. She had stolen not just his diary, but his moment, his control, his pride.
He sat down with deliberate calm, forcing his lips into that easy, confident smirk that everyone adored. But deep down, beneath the surface of practiced composure, a seed of rage took root. Morsia had made herself an obstacle, and Tom Riddle had never tolerated obstacles for long.
That night, while the rest of Hogwarts celebrated under glittering candles and laughter, he decided that her demise by him can no longer wait.